


Love for Them

by Firedawn (Serpyre)



Series: Don't [3]
Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexuality, F/F, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Katherine Howard Is Ace, Victim Blaming, katanna, other queens are background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27900238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpyre/pseuds/Firedawn
Summary: Katherine Howard does not know love: not at first.Not until he came. Not until he, broad-shouldered, bearded, creased face, the spitting image of alluring maturity entered her life.Or, a study of Katherine Howard, and her relationship with her asexuality, over time.
Relationships: Anne of Cleves & Katherine Howard, Anne of Cleves/Katherine Howard (Implied)
Series: Don't [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576483
Comments: 22
Kudos: 42





	Love for Them

**Author's Note:**

> … not going to lie, this idea was what had gotten me back into the fandom, along with an almost obsessive amount of listening to AYWD. 
> 
> **Heavy trigger warnings for rape, corrective rape, gaslighting, acephobia (external & internalised), grooming, internalised self-blame.** No heavily explicit rape is shown but it is alluded to, implied, and in imagery.

Katherine Howard does not know love: not at first.

Not until he came. Not until he, broad-shouldered, bearded, creased face, the spitting image of _alluring maturity_ entered her life. 

Some have gushed about Mannox’s allure. He was… broad and dark. _Desirable_ was the words which she had overheard some of their maids say. 

And he wants _her._

(Who was she to refuse?) 

And so Katherine stares. Up at her music teacher. Of a gigantic stature; so much taller, stronger, wider than her was he. And that’s part of the _allure,_ she’s sure, but she’s also sure that he can crush her in her fingers, leave her in only little pieces, mingling between ashes and dust amid piano keys. 

He looks back at her. _You can stop, Katherine. I see how you stare at me._

She flushes, then. She gazes up at him. Tall and glowering and imposing. A knowing smirk presses by his lips. 

_How… do I stare?_

His eyes turn dark then. _Don’t pretend you don’t know._

And she _doesn’t_ know, she _doesn’t,_ not really. All she knows is what the maids relay to her through bated whispers. _He is captivating. Have you seen him? Dark. Mysterious. How breathtaking. I want him to make me his._

Mannox reaches for her hair. He combs his fingers through the ends. She lets him. 

_I’ll show you how you’re supposed to feel._

And she loves him. How could she not? He is… striking. That is what they say about him. He is… brooding. He is handsome. Desirable. 

He ~~fondles~~ — he’s fond of her. And of course, she was never a _fan_ of the sensation, but that was normal. Nobody liked it; not at first. You were to get used to it. 

And Katherine is patient. She can wait. 

.

Dereham is the next person they speak about. 

_How charming is he! So enchanting… so handsome… and so intelligent. Always so astute, so cultured and scholarly: one would think him a nobleman. I hear he is well-endowed… and oh, his virility…_

Katherine knows of Dereham’s virility well. He enters the girls’ bedchambers at night. He and the other men. Their eyes prowl, like they are pickings at a market. 

(Katherine always curls up in her bed, underneath the sheets, as if she isn’t there. She is not asleep. She knows better than to pretend to be asleep. But she curls herself up, as if, with enough time, they would not see her there anymore.)

And she catches his eye because she is _independent._

That is what he says she is. That first night: when his footfalls pause by the end of her bed, and Katherine had refused to meet his eyes. She did not manage to curl within the safety of her bedsheets in time, and so she had stayed, there: eyes cast to the side, averting away from the bodies that mangle the beds and the screeches that interpolate the air. 

_Look at me._

She looks. 

_You don’t want me?_

And she gazes.

He is tall. He has a strong jaw. A muscular chest. A symmetrical face. A powerful gait. _Sculpted,_ is how they would describe him.

 _(So enchanting… so handsome… so intelligent. And he wants_ you _. Do you really not want_ him _? Would you really_ _refuse_ _Dereham?_ **_Dereham?_** _)_

A breath catches in her throat _._ Because—who is she to say _no?_

But Dereham shakes his head before she can speak. He lets out a laugh. A husky laugh. One that speaks to pride and promises once he reaches out to her face. Tilts her chin down with his thumb and makes her meet his face. She lets him. 

_I’ll prove myself worthy of you._

He gives her 100 pounds. _It is yours if I do not return from my voyage._ And he leaves her with the sum of his fortune, and Katherine’s stomach is sick with responsibility, for she is merely fourteen, and she had not known him until months prior. What makes him trust her so?

_He loves you so._

He reprieves himself from sexual duty. _I will be celibate for you, my love. My eyes belong to you._ And he presses a kiss to her knuckles, and the roughness of his lips do not leave her skin until days after. 

The other girls jostle her. Stare at her. Scowl at her. Jealousy mingling in their eyes. Desire rupturing through their words. 

_You didn’t have to take Dereham away from us! Not the most… well-endowed man of the home._ And they share giggles, and they nudge one another, and they laugh, and Katherine listens to their glee. 

_Do not tell me that you do not want him. Do_ **_not_** _._

_Katherine, you might as well let him have you. Maybe then he’ll have us too._

_Is it not obvious that he_ _wants_ you _, Katherine? And he is trying so hard for your love, too—he_ **_wants_ ** _you! Don’t be a tease. Give him what he **desires**. _

And he returns from his voyage. She is there, at her bed. He approaches her. She does not meet his eyes. But the indignance is too present in his voice already. 

_Do you not love me still? I have done everything for you. Do you still seek to keep your independent pretence, Katherine? Or will you allow me to love you?_

Her throat is sticky and sore. And she looks up to Francis Dereham. 

He is even more masculine, upon his return. Muscles jut from his arms. As if he had been at work. Exuding an odour which is reminiscent of the sea. So much more sculpted. 

_Katherine, don’t tell us that you_ _don_ _’_ _t_ _love him. He is so handsome… have you seen his_ body _? And not to mention his charm! If you reject him… I am sorry, but your taste must be atrocious._

There is a plea in Katherine’s eyes. She flicks her gaze away from him. But it does not stop her from seeing a smirk writhe its way across Dereham’s lips.

He grabs her by the chin. Roughly, now. 

_Of course you love me._

Dereham reaches for her lips. He kisses her. His fingers tousle her hair. He combs his fingers through the ends. She lets him. 

(Katherine had never wished for anything more different, then.)

.

“You desire him, do you not?”

Katherine flushes once again. She carefully turns her eyes away from Joan’s eyes. “He is… enthralling, of course.”

And she’s under Joan’s scrutiny. Katherine presses her fingers into her dress and tries not to squirm. Because she could _see,_ couldn’t she? That Katherine saw him as _majestic,_ as _intense,_ as _impressive,_ yet not… 

“You _want_ him, do you not?”

She nods. Vigorously. Twice—thrice—that should be enough to emphasise. 

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, of course I do!”

For who was she? Some fool? Who cannot love Mannox? Who cannot love Dereham? Who cannot admire their... sculpted beauty? Who cannot _love_ their bodies?

(She kisses Dereham more vigorously, that night. He does all he wishes to her and she lets him. She screws her eyes shut and forces herself to relax. For she loves him. For she desires him. She is not a monster. Who can _love_ and cannot _desire_ at the same time?) 

.

And then she is raised up-high into the Royal Court. She is the Queen's lady-in-waiting. _Anna’s_ lady-in-waiting. A marriage arranged by the ever-intelligent Cromwell. The German Queen, about to be wed to England’s most… fitting suitor. 

They meet in the golden hours of the morning, at first. Katherine courtesies, but Anna waves her off: _That is not necessary._ And she is bewildered, at first, but soon her lips morph into a slight, not quite, smile. 

Oh, she _enjoys_ it so. She has a _purpose,_ a _reason,_ here. She is to serve the Queen. And Anna talks to Katherine, and she does her best to fulfill her wishes. 

( _At first,_ at least. Before their conversations had evolved elsewhere; beginning when Katherine had accidentally intruded upon Anna’s chambers and found her with tears glimmering by her eyes, gazing out into the muted England beneath her window. And she should have apologised profusely, and retreated, but words, unbidden, had slipped from her lips: _my Queen, if I may ought to know… what is troubling you?)_

(And Anna talks to her about _home,_ about _missing_ it all, about how much she _despises_ Henry, how she _wishes_ she weren’t here. Katherine’s heart wrenches, because even if she had never come from a foreign country to marry some man. She understands. Compromise. She understands. Obligation. She understands. Desire.)

They’d spend hours away in aimless chatter, since then. And every time she is not with Anna, Katherine finds an aching void in her heart, _waiting, wanting_ to be reunited with her friend’s company. 

Of course, she has the other ladies-in-waiting. They are amiable. Their company is amicable. As it should be, really. But Katherine cannot help but feel _disassociated_ , from the conversation they make. 

“... was none a man so stark and strong, of strength that ever came near! None a man so fair under God. He, the most bold, the most knightly, with the _appetite,_ I hearsay, of a _voracious_ _beast…_ ” 

And she _sees_ that, yes, he was a _knight,_ he was _strong,_ and yet…. 

_Voracious? Beast?_

“Katherine? What about you? What do you think of Thomas Culpepper?”

Her eyes snap up.

“I don’t know,” she replies, half a struggling smile parting her lips. “He is a… fair man.”

And she means it, in that sense. He is _fair,_ of a fair proportion, a healthy man of his stature, and tall, too—that would be appealing. His facial features are even, smooth, and defined. Broad shoulders. Decently muscular. Tall. That perfect image of nobility. A peer. 

_He sets my loins on fire,_ one of the ladies-in-waiting says. And Katherine’s brow furrows. Of course, he was _fair_. And yet… _loins…?_

Katherine brushes the thought off with a chuckle. “Seems we may have to try and bring Lady Margaret and Lord Culpepper together, then.” 

But by the end of the day, when it is merely her, and Anna, alone. They are quiet together. And Katherine always feels _better,_ when they are together. When they talk, together. And perhaps their company is _aimless_ , but Katherine is _content,_ and so is Anna. 

And one day when they are alone and together at night at the palace. Katherine tilts her head at Anna. _Teach me how to dance,_ she whispers to her. _My teachers had always found me unteachable. They said,_ and it was with a giggle that she kept within the confines of her throat, _that I was unruly. Unfocused. Diffuse._

 _You would not learn much from me, then,_ Anna says, her lips curled in jest. 

She feels something play by her mouth. She meets Anna’s eyes again, tilts her head. _I would pay attention to the Queen._

Anna laughs. _Take my hand, then._

They dance. And it is so quiet, then. Katherine isn’t sure what she was expecting. But Anna’s hand is soft, and her arms on Katherine’s shoulders are not invasive. What they do, is just that, as Katherine’s asked: they dance. 

And sometimes, when it is only just them there in Court, Anna asks for Katherine’s hand. And Katherine fancies herself in a ballroom dance; in Hampton Court, maybe, or Richmond, during festivities: on St. Valentine’s day, perhaps. 

It is there where they dance. In the centre of the room, next to nobilities and courtiers, yet they are too far away to touch. Where music ebbs by and invigorates the air in currents and flows. 

They sway, to nothing at all. 

(And sometimes, when Katherine gazes into Anna’s passionate eyes, her unrepentant fervour, her vigour and her _smile_ , her heart flutters, ever so slightly.) 

Yet it is so transient, like a flickering firefly to the ever-tenebrous night. 

(And when she is raised Queen. It is as if that feeling were never there at all.)

.

And she is raised Queen, and she stands, in the hallways, next to Anna. Katherine is not Queen, not yet: it is not her _coronation,_ yet, not yet in July. Yet Anna is no longer Queen, _annulled,_ was what she had overheard from the courtiers. 

It has been a while since they had spoken. 

“You don’t need to marry him,” Katherine says to Anna, finally. A sad smile lifts her lips.

Anna’s jaw is set. There is a storm of emotion _,_ Katherine knows, that is concentrated on her face. But it is kept under trellises and stone. 

“Not at your expense.”

“I know,” Katherine says, quietly. She looks away from her eyes. “But I am truly happy for you. Anna.”

Anna shakes her head. It is like there is something she is about to say. But she leaves it. And Katherine meets, _reads,_ her eyes.

_I am not. Not for you._

And she does not understand why her heart aches so, not really. When, later, she turns her gaze away from Anna to Henry. She only understands that she _aches._

(That word, Katherine would later come to understand, is _saudade_. Where the pit in her stomach. Tells her of what meets her in the future. Where her glimmering eyes. Brim, involuntarily, for they would not see each other again. Not _truly._ )

(Where she longs. For a time when Katherine were simply a lady-in-waiting, and Anna simply the Queen. For their conversations, for their _dances,_ for their entwined hands, for their boundless laughter. For her firefly heart.)

(Katherine knows she cannot long. Not for long. And yet.) 

.

Henry is repulsive.

And that is a shared sentiment. Anna shares it, with a scowl, contemptuous, from the day she had landed on England and beyond. Katherine’s own ladies-in-waiting share it, with a flitting laugh. She takes comfort in it. _Good,_ she thinks, relief in her mind. _I’m not… I’m not_ **_wrong_** _. There’s nothing wrong with_ **_me._ **

But as her ladies-in-waiting make idle talk about Henry’s less-than-desirable state, they also make _talk,_ other talk _: Have you seen that courtier today? God above, he is gorgeous. Dudley, was that his name? He stirs in me a hot flame under my skin. What is with the nobility? What they can render me…_

She is not even safe from that talk in the Royal Court. For, despite how much they are the King’s royal servants, appointed to _serve,_ she still hears the courtiers speak. 

_…. who else finds your fancy, my lords?_

_I say she. How dainty, how delicate is she? Truly a fine, full, comely creature. So sensual in her beauty. So nubile in her fertility. How much I desire_ _her…_

They continue. And although they are not speaking of her. Katherine cannot help but feel _isolated_ from them all. 

Loneliness encroaches her. It delves down her skin, swathes across her limbs, until she is huddling and shivering and so _cold._ Loneliness makes her enclose herself, as their obstreperous conversations seep in her ears and she suppresses her repine. Loneliness is nighttime, when her ladies-in-waiting have dispelled and it is only _she_ and _him_ trapped in darkness.

And he parts her legs every night and she _struggles_ and _gasps_ and she _quells_ herself.

 _No_. She is _supposed_ to enjoy this. 

And she squashes the anxiety percolating through her skin. Even as he makes her lay on the bed and he crawls above her. A beast imposing. Panting. _Wanting._

She looks away. She pretends that the windows are windows and not trellises that grip stone like she is in the Tower itself. She forces her eyes to the moonlit night and thinks of her _virginity,_ thinks of her _duty._

Henry reaches for her cheeks. He smashes her mouth against his. His breath is hot and his odour is heavy. His fingers wrangle through her hair, desperate, _seeking,_ he _wants_ her, he _wants_ her, he wants _everything_ of her. 

And she is an orb, crushed between the weight of his grasp.

She lets him do it. She lets him touch her. And she lets him and she shudders with breaths that he thinks is pleasure. She lets him assume.

(And it is better, when dawn murks through the whole of England, and he gets off her, brushes himself off, makes his way towards his kingly duties. But gloom settles all the same, when it is night. And Katherine bites down a wince every single time his eyes go feverish with desire.) 

.

It is then when she meets Thomas Culpepper. 

She does not know what to think when she first sees him. For he was all-too reminiscent of those courtiers, the ones that would leer at ladies when they pass by. 

But he is not. 

He is kind, and he is all she needs, really. A confidant, a _friend_. And her heart is _elated,_ for he does not comment upon any lady’s looks, nor does he ask her whether any man catches her eyes. 

He guides the conversation. Of court affairs, of England and the world, of nature and birds. Sometimes, it enters into more _personal_ areas: of her home life, of her time with Anna, of life with the King. But she is _comfortable._

(And there is something that stays in her stomach. A certain gratitude _._ For she does not need to _fear,_ when she is with Culpepper. She is no longer isolated, when she is with him. He is her companion. Her _friend_.)

(And some days, she allows herself to think that, perhaps, he is like her. He is disinterested in… the _carnal calls_ of flesh, too. And Katherine knows that there is still something _wrong_ in her, for she is _supposed_ to _love_ , she can’t _not_ , but then, at least, she is not the only one.) 

Until his hands snake across her waist and she feels the unbidden press of his cold fingers upon her skin. Until she looks up at him, a question in her eyes. And panic resounds her insides. 

_Never have I seen a sultrier woman than you, Katherine Howard…_

(And if she’s being _honest_ to herself… it _isn’t_ the first time. His fingers had always lingered a moment too long, on her hands, as he’d helped her off her horse. And his hands had caressed her cheeks, had slunk down her neck, despite how she shrugs away from her touch.) 

_His hands_ , like spiders creeping upon their prey, a foreboding madness _latent_ in his grasp. Slinging his arm over her shoulders. Upon her back. Upon her stomach. On her ass. 

But she wanted to _pretend._ She wanted a friend _._ Why couldn’t she— _why couldn’t he—why couldn’t any of them—_

And he’s _boring_ into her, his eyes, and they are _sharp-cold-curious_ , _anger_ quivers in his blood-red mouth, and—

_Do you not want me?_

Katherine looks into his eyes. Into his glinting eyes and his fair face and his heaving chest and his chivalric pretence. 

She shakes her head. The _no_ is muted under her breath. Fractured by her heartbreak. 

_I thought—I thought you were just—I thought you didn’t_ _want_ _—_

 _Katherine_ , he scowls. Exasperation on his lips. _This is ridiculous. Do you not know love?_ _Do you not know_ _want_ _, do you not know_ ** _desire_** _? Such a fair creature like you cannot not_ ** _want_** _._

She freezes. 

( _Does she not know love? She is supposed to. That is the ultimate union: of man and woman, tangled in love, tangled in flesh. That is God’s gift: love in sensuality, love in physicality, love in creation, the fostering of a child of perfect likeness.)_

 _(She… can’t_ not _love. That is… unholy. She should have at least reciprocated Mannox’s affections of her bodily frame. She’s supposed to relish in Dereham’s body, after he had loved her so. She’s ordained to love Henry, by God, for she’s the Queen, that is what she is_ _supposed_ _to be. Yet she can barely contain a scream when he is with her at night. She’s supposed to love Culpepper. The courtier admired by all the ladies-in-waiting, the courtier so handsome that it would be incomprehensible to reject him. That’s what she’s supposed to feel, especially after all that time of_ companionship **,** _of_ courting _, is that **not**?) _

_(But she doesn’t, and it is sinful, it_ ** _is_** _. Who has heard of a wife that physically cannot bring herself to love her husband? And not just that—but unable to take pleasures in the joys of flesh, unable to reconcile with the sight of unclad bodies? Disinterested in skin, in sensuality, in_ _i_ _ntimate_ _connection?_ _)_

 _(There’s something gravely wrong_ _with her. Something so fundamentally broken in her. And she is immoral for her relationships, she is false for her pretending, she is_ _reprehensible_ _. Was this_ _punishment_ _? Why can’t she_ ** _feel_** _?)_

Her breaths go erratic. She hopes Culpepper does not see her freeze. 

Culpepper’s eyes narrow. And his voice is _low,_ she is uncomfortable, but she fixes her eyes ahead, still, forces herself to still.

_Katherine. You are not frigid, are you? Do you not want anyone?_

She swallows. His eyes go dark. 

_No matter. I'll make you love me._

_I will redeem you._

_I will save you._

_(I’ll fix you.)_

Culpepper reaches for her body. He rakes his fingers down her back. He grabs her hair and pulls so hard it sears her scalp. He roams over her _chest thigh hips_ —

She sobs. She _hurts._

She hates him. 

She lets him. 

.

And Henry discovers then, and she is _dead,_ of course, and yet an irrevocable laugh sears her throat. And it is almost a choke, for, _oh_. 

If it is not doing what she loves best. 

.

Anna brings her to the others, after she returns to life again. 

(They separate, after their hug. And Katherine keeps to herself, for her skin still feels tender, so delicate, so much like a _newborn’s_ and she clutches to it, for she does not quite believe that she is here. Hisses from ghosts linger amid her breaths, and electric static runs through her heart.)

Perhaps that is why her first meeting with the Queens does not turn out to be the… best. 

_“Welcome!”_

It’s like a dozen voices chorus at _once,_ and Katherine cringes, because the noise, the chaos, the _flurry_ is almost overwhelming. And then there is _chatter,_ and then there are _faces,_ then there are _hands_ on her… 

She flinches. His fingers drag through her hair. His words lurk by her ear. _I love you, don’t you love me, don’t you like my touch, touch, touch…_

“Don’t touch me.” Katherine snaps.

They all jolt away, immediately, at once. And the sensation disappears, just as fast as they come. She quells the tremble in her hands. Knots her knuckles into her dress and forces them to _stop._

Katherine lets out a breath. Maybe someone says something: through the groggy murk that is by her ears, somebody probably does. But she steels her breaths. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, a bare whisper in her throat. 

“Don’t apologise,” says a voice. Katherine lifts her head to meet Anna’s eyes. They’re glinting. “I am glad we have you back, Katherine.”

She stifles the sob. She lets a soft smile rest by her lips. She looks around, and sees the rest, looking back at her. Some faces are kind; some are with concern; some are with half, not quite, smiles. All without judgement. 

She says, “I’m glad to be here, too.”

.

The adjustment, at first, is not… easy.

Especially not when she is living with five other Queens, the only thing in common is their mutual ex-husband, and too much unresolved _tension,_ unresolved _drama_ to behold.

Katherine would not have minded. Not before. She was, after all, in a factious Court, one which its favour swayed between the Howards and their enemies. 

But this was a different sort of drama. This was Anne Boleyn and Catherine of Aragon at one another’s throats; and when it was not that then it would be Boleyn against Parr, over Elizabeth; this was Jane Seymour attempting to quell the nonsense which did not help matters anyhow. 

Perhaps she should have stayed at Anna’s home. At least she would be able to have some sort of peace and quiet, then. 

But what the other Queens do have is boundaries _._ What they have is respect. For they have endured the same man together in their old lives. 

(She doesn’t let any of them touch her. Not so soon; not yet. Her skin is tender, and her wounds sink deep. Listless dreams made of men pervade her head. No: she does not need touch, now.)

They respect her. They don’t ask.

And that is all she can ask for. She is glad. 

(And Katherine later learns that what they have is mutability, too. Arguments resolve; apologies are made; _pasts_ are put in the _past._ And while resentments remain, they dissipate, with compromise, with understanding. And that, perhaps, is as good as they can achieve.)

.

Slowly. Katherine gets better. 

It is not long, then, after. After she’d broken down about her past. That their guards crash into sand. That pity suffuses their eyes. She knows she cannot get away from it. And Katherine resents it, really. But there is another emotion, too, that twines in her stomach, for being…. cared about. 

They teach her. And Katherine learns. Of her past. Of her _life_.

(And one day, when she feels ready enough, her fingers stray to the handle of the opaque bookshelf. Katherine grips the book of survivors that Jane had brought her. She inhales a quiet breath, and begins to read.)

She does not tell them _everything_. She cannot. But they see the shame that flushes her face. They see the pain that wrenches her eyes. They see her huddle in on herself, they see her tuck her head between her legs, they see her quench her quiet sobs. 

Those men were wrong. They took advantage of her. They molded her, shaped her, _groomed_ her. They _gaslit_ her. And, of course, she would not _desire_ them. She was a mere child back then. That is what the other Queens comfort her with.

 _No_ , she says, shakes her head. _You don’t understand. I… I know it’s_ _wrong_ _, but they… weren’t entirely wrong. Culpepper was… trying to help._ And Katherine averts their aghast eyes, extricates the next words from her throat. 

_It is not just… that. I’m_ **_wrong_** _._

Disbelief echoes in Parr’s eyes. Confusion’s in Aragon’s. Pain’s in Jane’s. Anger’s in Anne’s. 

_Why?_

Yet every time she tries to speak, she cannot convey what she means. And so Katherine shrugs, lets out a small sigh, and smiles. _Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve mentioned it. Just pretend I didn’t say anything. Never mind._

And she leaves, despite the calls in protest behind.

(She goes to her room, those times, then. Shuts the door. Curls in on herself. And prevents all thought from conspiring in her mind.)

.

But after those times. There is always Anna, who checks upon her. Who knocks on her door. Who asks if there is anything Katherine wants. Who takes her leave, if Katherine does not speak. 

(And there is no _question,_ no _judgement,_ no _anything_ in her eyes. Those days when Katherine opens her door for Anna. Anna simply lets Katherine talk, and their chatter is idle, as aimless as before. But it is like _before,_ and that is a safety blanket that environs her, a feeling that she had not known she _needed,_ not until they were reborn and present and _here._ )

And sometimes, if Katherine was brave enough, she would tilt her head, look up to Anna’s eyes, exhale a breath. _Anna. Would you like to dance?_

(And there is a certain feeling that stirs in her gut, when she takes Anna’s hand, when they take their positions in Katherine’s bedroom, when she closes her eyes and finds herself in an empty ballroom.)

(Fireflies. She thinks. It has been a while.)

.

They’re in a circle, playing a game. Katherine isn’t sure _what’s_ brought this on, exactly, but her overenthusiastic cousin had dragged them all into a so-called _Game Night_ and so. Here they are. 

“… yes, that’s my choice on who to bed, _shut up,_ Anne _._ That leaves me to marry Beckham. And I think beheading Henry is a no brainer.”

Anne’s eyes, tinged with mischievousness, light up at the last one. “I like your taste!” she exclaims. “Is that some revenge for me?”

Parr rolls her eyes. “Don’t be silly, Anne. Of course it is.”

Aragon scoffs at the sight, though her amusement’s evident in her eyes. Jane doesn’t even try to hide her amusement. Katherine watches Anne nuzzle into Parr’s shoulder. And, unbidden, a slight smile twinges her lips, too.

Anne must catch her stare because she extricates herself from Parr, and Katherine raises an eyebrow at the cunning smile wreathed upon her cousin’s face.

“It’s your turn, Katherine! _Wed, bed, behead_.”

From beside Katherine, Anna rolls her eyes. “Why can’t you just say fuck, marry, kill, like everyone else?”

“Shut up, Anna! It’s funnier this way.”

Anne rats off a few names. Their faces float somewhere in the back of Katherine’s mind. And she feels unease creep up her neck. She hasn’t _really_ thought about what this game entails, until, well… 

“... so, what do you think? What’s your verdict? And c’mon, Kat, don’t tell me that you _don’t know._ You’ve _got_ to have a preference!”

Their faces are distinct, but distilled. And Katherine tries to make them _clearer,_ for _clarity_ in her mind. But even as she does, and even as the other Queens clamour, _they’re the one with the abs to die for, he’s the one that’s a straight-up hunk, she’s the one that’s so freaking hot…_

Katherine stares. 

“I…”

Their words do not help her decide. And she knows there is a _correct_ answer, knows there is a _consensus_ that everybody agrees upon. Yet finding _that_ out is another guessing-game in itself, like attempting to pry a sight from a stone vice. 

“Oh, come on, he’s so sexy. Total smash?”

“She’s so hot? Like… so fit? Don’t tell me you don’t _see_ that, Katherine!”

“Oh, come on! You can’t kill _him!_ ”

“I—I don’t know,” she says, flushes. Panic spikes in her stomach, and she wants to _leave,_ yet she feels so trapped, here. Because it’s like she’s back in Court again—amid the ladies-in-waiting, amid the courtiers and the noblemen, listening but not _there,_ feeling a little colder the more the words exited their lips, a basilisk curling in her stomach… 

Not because she truly doesn’t know. She _knows,_ she _does._ There are men who are the definition of a knight, and women a definition of a fair maiden. There are people that are sculpted like Greek gods. There are people that she could watch, entranced, in minutes: for they were like nature embodied. 

But she doesn’t know by _their_ measure. 

(Her measure is this, which she had used back in Court, whenever she had to participate in such discourse. Facial evenness. Body shape. Whether they wore short cloth or studded tunics. Yet, and this is when Katherine realises, yet they mean as much to her as a grain of salt does.)

They’re staring at her expectantly. She knows she’s supposed to say something. And it’s easy, really; her words slipped from her like water in the Royal Court. _He is ravishing; so fanciable; irresistible, bedabble._ She was so good at it, they branded her a _vixen,_ a _whore,_ a _sex-addict_ for it. 

But her throat’s dry and she realises she cannot speak. She does not want to _say the same_. Not to them. 

(Not for them to see how _wrong,_ how _abnormal,_ how _broken_ she is. Not for them to know that _they_ aren’t guilty, not as much as they paint _Mannox or Dereham or Henry or Culpepper_ out to be, because fuck, she detests what they’ve done to her, what they’ve done _torments_ her at night, but _they were doing it for her._ )

“I don’t know,” Katherine finally says, letting out a small, quiet breath. “I—I’m gonna go.”

She gets up and leaves, despite their protests. She crosses her arms. Her stomach knots, as she advances up the stairs. She huddles in on herself, once she arrives at her bed. She closes her eyes, and lets out a long, shuddery breath. 

.

Her room is colder than before. And she should stay there, really, until she drifts off into bed, until the nightmares tap her windows and trespasses into her mind’s eye. 

But Anna doesn’t let her. 

There’s a knock, two, three, at her door. _Katherine?_ And Anna enters, before Katherine can respond because she’s so _exhausted_. 

And before she can stop herself, a sardonic retort pulls from her lips, powdered with a smile. “Barging in on rooms today, are we, Anna?”

“Only checking up on my favourite Queen of England,” replies Anna, and a light laugh shakes Katherine’s chest; _at least she doesn’t take it as a jab_. 

“But if you really want me to go. I’m sorry. I can leave—”

“No, don’t.” And there’s an unspoken _please_ that stays between her words. 

Anna stays. Katherine looks to her side; to the walls, to anything but Anna’s eyes. 

“Do you want to talk about anything?” Anna asks. “I’m… sorry, if that game triggered anything.”

“It didn’t.” Katherine says. 

There’s a moment of silence that diffuses between them. And the awkwardness is nigh-high in the air, oh so _uncomfortable,_ almost as if she was back to where they began: Katherine, a lady-in-waiting at Court, fretfully counting down the minutes until the Queen’s arrival. 

“What’s this about, then?”

Katherine lets out a low laugh. “Nothing. I just… needed a moment, is all. Think I had too much to drink.”

Anna’s belief, or lack thereof, is even starker after Katherine utters her words. And something curls in her _chest,_ because she at _least_ could’ve found a better excuse, or she could’ve said it _earlier._ Because now Anna’s waiting for her to _say something,_ especially after Katherine’s told her to _stay,_ and… 

“... I don’t know,” Katherine says, sighs, tries to put a smile on her lips. “Look, Anna… I really appreciate you being here. Truly. But…” and her words falter.

Another pause. 

“Katherine… you know you can talk to me about anything.” 

_No. No, I can’t._ And yet even as those words echo in her mind, she knows it isn’t really _true._ She has spoken to Anna about everything; back in the Court, and _now._ So instead, she settles with: 

“You wouldn’t want to know.”

“Give me your worst.”

Katherine feels something struggle by the ends of her lips. “Do you really want to know?”

Anna gives one nod. 

Katherine exhales. She turns her head away, and a burn creeps onto her face, and she closes her eyes because she can’t meet Anna’s face. 

“Fine. They raped me. And it was my fault.”

Nothing, for a moment. And then another. Katherine swallows and opens her eyes. 

Anna’s eyes are wide. She stands, in stunned silence, for a moment, until her eyes narrow, until she shakes her head vigorously. “Katherine! It’s not your fault. I cannot _conceive_ how it can be your fault, Katherine. They _forced_ themselves on you!”

Guilt sloshes in her stomach. Katherine lets out a breath. Forces her words out of her throat. “No… no, it’s not just that. I didn’t tell you everything. He… he wanted to fix me.”

“What?”

She huddles in on herself. “I said what I said. I let them.”

Another moment. And another. And another. And Katherine _doesn’t know_ what Anna’s thinking, and she doesn’t _know,_ doesn’t know if she _wants_ to know that it’s _revulsion_ or _confusion_ that colours her face, doesn’t want to know if _judgement_ or _aghastness_ that lines her eyes _._ But Katherine can’t bear the silence. 

_Please say something._

She takes another look at Anna. And something inexplicable reigns on Anna’s face. And then, the last thing Katherine _expects_ tumbles out of Anna’s mouth. 

“Katherine... what do you think of men?”

“What do you mean?” She scoffs, quietly, as if to hide the recoil in her chest. “I think you know what level of esteem I hold _men_ in.”

Anna shakes her head. “No, I don’t mean that. I mean… how would you describe them? Physically?”

_… what?_

“Bodies. Flesh. Faces,” she says, without really thinking, and heat tinges her cheeks, because _what is she supposed to say?_

“... of course, their faces can be pleasing to see, but that is… merely that.”

Anna stares at her. “Is that really how you see men?”

“Am I wrong?”

That coaxes a chuckle out of Anna. “No, not wrong. What about women, then?”

Katherine stays there, bewildered, for a moment. Till finally, she finds the words on her lips. 

“They are… bodies, of course. Flesh and faces. And their faces are certainly beautiful, of course. Like marble stone. It is not… I’m not… men and women are both _beautiful._ Like sunsets, or paintings, or well-crafted statues.”

“... Aesthetically so?”

Katherine nods. And even as she does she feels a sinking feeling in her chest. Because _now_ Anna’s going to understand, _now_ Anna’s going to know, and yet she cannot stop the words from forming on her lips. 

“Yes, I suppose that’s it. They are aesthetically beautiful.” 

There is a moment of quiet between them. 

“Katherine…” and Anna gnaws her lips, “… do you feel sexual attraction?”

_And there._

“W-what?” she says, and it escapes her throat, almost a laugh—yet the sound is more strangled than that. 

“Like… how do I put this.” Anna exhales. “Do you see someone, and do you desire them?”

“I—I think they’re beautiful, of course.”

“But do you _want_ them?” 

She’s about to say _of course_ when she stills. _No, no._

She cannot lie. 

For this is _Anna._

(And, involuntarily, she thinks of when she was a child. She thinks of men and courtiers, of women and their laughter. Of bodies pulsating against bodies.Of skin grinding against skin. Gasps. Sweat. Breaths. Of slimy bodies and of repugnant odour and _screams._ Of crevasses that remind her of bodybags.)

Something bitter reigns on Katherine’s lips.

“... no, I don’t. See? There’s something _broken_ in me, something _unnatural,_ Anna, I—”

And she falters. Anna looks at her: with concern, with care. 

And gentleness not before heard in her voice presses through Anna’s tone, so soft, so quiet. “Katherine, have you heard of asexuality before?”

.

And there is something that chokes at the back of her throat. As she looks at articles and comments and statements _._ _Asexuality_.

Because she thought she was _wrong_ and thought she was _broken_ and it didn’t make sense, _not before_. 

But she trawls through articles. She trawls through what other people say and it hits. Their words _make sense._ They _resonate._

_This… this is her._

(And she remembers how she’d cried, then, into Anna’s shoulder. And she remembers when Anna held her. And had murmured.)

 _(They were wrong. They are wrong for wronging you. They are at fault, not you. You are not wrong, Katherine. Don’t you dare say that you are wrong, that you are abhorrent, that you are_ **_broken_** _. You are not. You are yourself. And there is nothing wrong with_ **_you_** _.)_

She isn’t alone.

(She never was, not really. But she just never… knew.)

.

They didn’t believe it when she’d said it; not at first, the moment she’d gathered everyone in the living room, told them she had something to say.

“I’m asexual. That means... I don’t feel… sexual attraction. Not towards others. Not to anyone.”

But the Queens’ eyes are wide and there is a glimmer of a smile that hangs off their lips. And Katherine feels something twitch by her mouth, too.

“Thank you for trusting us enough to tell us, Katherine,” says Jane, softly. “We love you no matter what.” 

Her cousin has mischief made in her eyes. Parr’s own are sparkling. And Anna is smiling with the knowledge already. 

She tells them. Because, unlike the Court, where her _pretence_ was given, she doesn’t _want_ to convince them of the same. She wants to tell them. Who she is. _Herself,_ whole and herself. 

And there are _questions,_ of course; there always are questions. But they are made in good faith, they are genuine queries, and Anna is there to help her answer, too. 

By the end of it all, Anne cocks her head. “Can I ask you a question, Katherine?”

(And it’s serious, she knows: for Anne, so taken to calling her a variety of nicknames, had never really called her by her full name, at all.)

Katherine nods. 

“Is that because of them?”

_Because of what they’ve done to you?_

Katherine muses this, for a moment. 

“No,” she finally says. “No, I don’t think so.”

Because. It is undeniable that they’ve... changed her. Despite how much she hates that they have. For all they've made her think with their _lies_ and their _deceit_ and they made her believe _their desire_ was her own fault and her _lack of_ hers, too, and pretended it was something they were to _fix_.

They’ve changed her, of course. To say that nightmares made of men do not infiltrate her mind, sometimes, would be a lie. They've changed her. But not that way. 

“I think I’ve always been…” and she tries the words on her lips. Half a smile perks by her mouth. “Ace.”

And they embrace her, there, and then.

(She lets them.)

.

And, perhaps, it comes to this.

Katherine Howard does not know love. 

Not sexual love, at least. But sexual love is not all there is to _love_. And it does not mean that she is _broken,_ that she is _lesser,_ if she doesn’t want that. 

(And… she’s still thinking about romantic love. She isn’t _sure,_ not yet, at least. Perhaps she is aromantic; perhaps she is not. She’s not ruling anything out yet. She’s patient. She’ll wait and see.)

(Yet: the flutter in her chest when she sees Anna, implies, perhaps, something _else._ )

What Katherine does know, however, is this:

She knows love. 

She knows love made with _care,_ with _zest_ , with _euphoria_. 

She knows familial love.

(She knows romantic love.)

And that kind of love is all she wants. That love is what she needs.

(Katherine Howard does not know love; not at first, not all of its _forms_ and its intricacies. But, she thinks. She does, now.)

.

“How about… _I’m the ten amongst these threes?”_

“Anne!”

“What? Let Katherine decide if she likes it or not!”

Katherine stifles a laugh in the back of her throat. She looks between an exasperated Anna to a far-too-happily expectant cousin. “I like the irony in me judging you all for your looks.”

“See! She likes it!”

“Only the _irony,_ Anne.” Katherine says, a hint of a smile upon her lips. “I will never not enjoy the fact that the most _sexual_ song is sung by the most asexual person of this group.”

Anne laughs. “Me too, Kat. And we love you for it.”

“Yeah,” Katherine says, and a certain warmth pools in her heart, despite how much her words are sunken in humour. “I know you all do.” 

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Thank you so much for reading. Please keep going (: 
> 
> This fic is almost an amalgamation of Breathe For Them and Dance For Them. Pertaining historical accuracy, the sequence of events are the same of the previous two; obviously, with a fair few liberties.
> 
> About Katherine’s sexuality—I headcanon Six!Katherine as ace homoromantic, who feels aesthetic attraction; which interweaves with the Don’t series overall. I thought ace!Katherine made sense, which kind of struck when listening to AYWD, particularly when listening to the choruses. All she wants is a relationship that is romantic or friendly—but all they give her is sexual relationships, and that isn’t what she desires. They say they have a connection with her, but it's just a sexual connection that they care for; "all you want to do is...." And that is why her heartbreak and her pain is so strong. 
> 
> Last of all, if anyone wants to read the development of Katherine and Anna's relationship, please check out the fic prior to this one, which is _Dance For Them_ , chronologising all that's happened. (:
> 
> I know that it’s been a hot second since I’ve stepped my toes into this fandom, and it’s been so much fun revisiting Katherine after… almost a year. But I hope you guys liked this anyhow!
> 
> Please let me know what you thought—I would die for a comment, literally am going to sell my soul ;-; Thank you again for reading!


End file.
